...poking A Lump Of Red Jello That

I Strain To Hear, But My Old Ears, For All Their Obscene Hugeness, Pick Up Nothing But Snippets.

I Have To Convince Myself That This Is Not A Pointless Life, Even The Body Is Telling Me So.

All Right. Let's Give You Something To Tell Your Grandkids About. Or Great-grandkids. Or Great-great-grandkids." I Snort With Glee, Delirious With Excitement. Charlie Winks And Pours Me Another Finger's Worth Of Whiskey. Then, On Second Thought, He Tips The Bottle Again. I Reach Out And Grab Its Neck. "better Not," I Say. "don't Want To Get Tipsy And Break A Hip.

I Don't Like Outlining, Because Books Are Organic Things. Sometimes A Book Doesn't Want To Be Written In A Certain Way.

I Am Ninety. Or Ninety-three. One Or The Other.